We are Brave, Before (something changes)
by Halcyon Impulsion
Summary: Thirty-two floors (and a couple garage levels) leaves Felicity with way too much time to think, after a lonely day at the office. There are pros and cons to working at the top of the building. Short chapter to start, and we'll see where it takes us. Olicity rules. No warnings, safe T.
1. Chapter 1

"Another day, another dollar," Felicity thought with a sigh.

She shoved her chair under the desk, pulled open her bottom drawer and removed her purse, and took a last glance around the office. Making her way to the door, she flipped the bank of light switches into the off position, and headed to the elevator.

The little numbers above the doors blinked downward from the 32nd floor, toward the second level of the parking garage, where her car was parked. _31 30 29_ Not even the CEO's assistant got to park closer to the offices than that. _28 27 26_ Third level—just below the first floor and lobby—was for senior executives and visitors only. _25 24 23_ At least she'd moved up in the world, even if it wasn't much.

Of course, moving up wasn't all it was cracked up to be. _22 21 20_ In truth, when she was on the second floor in Information Technology, she'd been much closer to a fast getaway in her little cooper than she was up in the ivory tower of Oliver's executive suite. _19 18 17 _

But the IT Department didn't have Oliver twenty steps away, in a glass-walled office _16 15 14_ where she could ogle him with frequent surreptitious frequency, which was a heavily weighted vote in favor of the ivory tower. _13 12 11 bad!felicity_

Leaning back against the stainless wall, Felicity felt its chill take the edge off the heat which had started rising up her neck at the thought of ogling her boss. Super hero. Oliver. _10 9 8 nothelping!felicity_

Not that she'd had much time to ogle today—_7 6 5 can we just stop using the word "ogle"? Please? Why, yes, Ms. Smoak, yes we can—_Meetings, meetings, meetings. Boards, new investors, old investors, Evil Sea (Isabel) Witch. She only had herself to blame, really. She kept Oliver's calendar. _4 3 2_ She'd need to schedule fewer meetings for him if she wanted more time to ogl—she paused, lines between her eyebrows as she considered a new word. Admire. That was a nice word. Platonic enough, admiring enough, calm-cool-collected enough.

_1 G3 G2 ding_

Admire was definitely a nice new word for what she did with-to-at Oliver Queen. She unlocked the door and climbed in, tossing her stuff on the passenger seat. Then she slipped off her shoes and added them to the pile next to her. It had been a long day. The executive assistant job sucked much more than usual without the man himself in his office to admire all day long. She'd only seen him for about twenty minutes in the morning, and then there had been nothing but texting. Which could be fun if he had time to chat, but like most things in life, Mr. Queen was better _admired_ in person.

"Time for work," she muttered, starting the car and driving her baby out of the garage with a little more Indy500 than necessary.

Home first. To change into something more comfortable, which she didn't always do before heading to the lair, but today she felt like she deserved it, having spent the day all dressed up for nobody but the FedEx man and Isabel's sneaky, self-important assistant Lyle. Neither was the intended target of her favorite green striped skirt.

Target. Sheesh. Home to get her head on straight was more like it. _Take the fangirl down a notch for the evening, Felicity_.

She'd decided at the beginning—well, relatively close to the beginning—that even if she couldn't be honest about her feelings for Oliver with Oliver, she's at least be honest about them with herself. And they were, that her level-headed, really smart, look at the big picture self, was hopelessly (and she didn't use that word lightly), in love (or that one) with her boss. Super hero. Oliver. She'd managed to keep that to herself so far, in spite of her big, filter-less mouth, which was something she thanked the heavens for on a regular basis. In the grand scheme she could care less if she blathered on about, well, anything, as long as she managed to keep from blurting out that she would be more than happy to have Oliver's babies during a random conversation.

She'd parked, and that allowed her to gently bang her forehead against the steering wheel several times at that thought. _bad!felicity_. Retrieving her shoes, she slipped them back on, grabbed her keys and purse, and headed up to her apartment.

Black velour yoga pants, check. Most recent Doctor Who teefury purchase, check. Fuzzy socks, fuzzy sweater, office make-up off and toned-down lair make-up on. All checks. Fangirl under control. She glanced at herself in the mirror behind the front door and frowned.

Closing her eyes, she imagined Oliver's Sad Face, letting the image linger in her mind long enough to reign in the desire to back him up against one of those industrial doors in Verdant's basement and offer to get started on those babies tonight, and remember why she tortured herself with constant proximity to a man she couldn't have. He needed friends. She was his friend. And if her staying kept Sad Face to a minimum, then for right now, it would be enough and she would be okay.

* * *

AN: Been a long while since I've put up fic-I hope you like this. Cross your fingers I can keep it together and keep writing :) Short chapters to start with, and I'd tell you more, but only Felicity knows where it's all going. Obviously if I owned them, Sara would be...elsewhere. Title is from "Blushing Through" by Kirby Heyborne.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Phoned in dinner—it should be here in twenty," Felicity called from the top of the stairs as she closed the heavy door behind her and listened for it to auto-alarm itself before she headed down.

John and Oliver were already sparring, Oliver shirtless as usual. Maybe one day that wouldn't be the first thing Felicity noticed upon entering the lair, but that day was not today. With a sigh, she sunk to the bottom step, knowing they would finish the round without acknowledging her, and never one to miss an opportunity to . . . admire. Finally, John was on his stomach, an arm twisted behind with Oliver's knee in his back, and it was done. Oliver stood and as John rolled over, offered his friend the customary hand up off the floor.

"Did someone say dinner?" Diggle asked, still catching his breath as he caught Felicity's eye.

"Someone did," she said with a grin, standing up and heading over to the bank of computers she considered her home away from home these days. "Clean yourself up and you can meet the delivery boy upstairs."

"Yes, ma'am," John replied with a sharp salute, and headed for the shower.

During this short exchange, Oliver had nodded a hello to her, chugged a bottle of water, tossed the empty into the recycling bin Felicity had insisted on—_what's the point of saving the city from criminals if we lose the planet to pollution, she'd argued_—and moved to the salmon ladder, where he was doing chin ups like a mad man. At least she assumed that would be what a mad man doing chin ups would look like. She'd never actually seen one, of course, just Oliver, doing chin ups, very, very, fast. Biceps. Biceps. Biceps—_bad!felicity._

She turned around and faced her screens._ Nice, safe, non-half-naked screens. Enough admiring, Smoak. Lock up the fangirl. Again. _

Oliver looked like he needed something to hunt tonight. His day had obviously been a difficult one. He hated meetings at least as much as she did, possibly even more. Probably more, she figured, because he had to be CEO Oliver for hours and hours and that fake smile looked painful after about thirty seconds, so it couldn't be fun to have to have it on .long. Clearly, his assistant needed to do something about keeping him in his office and out of meetings more. For both their sakes.

He'd once said something about meetings being like tests—and that he hated tests. Every time he met with an investor, or sat down with members of the board, it was like everyone was waiting to see if he had the right answers. Waiting to see not _if _he was going to screw up, but when and how. It was common knowledge that most of the Starling City business world didn't feel as though, considering his pre-lost-at-sea reputation, he'd come by his position as CEO by any sort of qualification. And they weren't eager to risk their own significant investments with Queen Consolidated on the possibility that Robert and Moira's son had either inherited their financial acumen, or magically morphed into a solid, successful businessman while climbing trees and drinking coconuts.

Felicity could—painfully—imagine (she had an impressive imagination) the amount of pressure he'd been under since he started earnestly trying to save QC instead of just using his involvement with the company as a cover. Definitely, definitely, fewer meetings. Even if she had to cover a few of them herself _shudder_.

"Headed up," Diggle called over the clanging he made by taking the stairs two at a time.

On autopilot, Felicity had started up her evil!search program (not that she called it that to Digg and Oliver), which scanned media, law enforcement communication, and security camera footage in and around the city, alerting her to potential wickedness in progress, or patterns that indicated a string of criminal activities. The only sound in the room besides the hum of her machines was Oliver's heavy breathing and the squeak of the metal bars as his weight shifted on them.

Without turning around, she knew what she'd see, and she took a deep breath, removing her glasses and leaning forward on her elbows to push her palms into her eyeballs. They were tired, but apparently not too tired for the flashes of light behind them to illuminate a recollection of _exactly_ what Oliver looked like while he did chin ups on the salmon ladder. _Nobiceps!felicity_ she scolded herself, and instead forced her inner eye to focus on seeing Oliver's Tired Face. She'd seen it as he sparred with John, and in the nod he'd given her earlier. She'd also seen it that morning at the office—which seemed like a million hours ago—getting ready for his first meeting of the day.

Oliver was exhausted, and that meant he needed her to find him something to wring him out completely on the chance he might actually be able to sleep more than a couple hours tonight. She'd read about PTSD, and if anyone had it, it was Oliver Queen. She knew he'd never see a doctor about it—he wouldn't/couldn't even acknowledge it was a problem—and while most of his tension and anxiety had an outlet in the work of his Arrow persona, there were aspects, like the need for sleep and the inability to find it, that troubled her.

He needed his wits about him in the work they did, not just the under-the-cover-of-darkness crime fighting, but also against creepy Isabel, and his manipulative mother, and all the other hostiles which seemed to constantly be multiplying in his life. Physically disciplined prowess, killer instincts, and near superhuman stamina were all terribly useful, but if he was too worn out to concentrate, either at the office or on the streets, it could mean death or (financial) dismemberment, for him or for John, or both. And that was not okay with Felicity Smoak.

The sound of Diggle returning from the topside, and the smell of the Italian goodness he brought with him drew her from her reverie and she slipped her glasses back on and stood to meet him at the bottom of the stairs.

"I was hoping this was your choice for tonight, Felicity," John said with a grin. "Did you remember the gnocchi?"

"Does Oliver have abs?" she quipped back, immediately clapping a hand over her mouth in horror. _At least I didn't mention the babies. Yet._

"Last time I looked they were still there," Oliver chimed in as he joined them while they spread the food out, using the med table like a buffet.

Felicity didn't understand the biological need for blushing. It really wasn't fair of the universe to give her fair skin, a proclivity for blushing, and a _non-existent_ brain-to-mouth filter. Really, really, not fair. The combination caused nothing but trouble.

"Maybe we need more shirts—spoons—napkins—" she stuttered, her eyes unable to leave the abs (the place a shirt should in all good taste be residing at the moment) in front of her for love or money. "I'll just go look in the closet—"

She fled to the other side of the room, banging open the general supplies closet in search of _shirts_. Leaning her forehead against the cool metal shelf inside, she took several deep, cleansing breaths. They were not so loud as to keep her from hearing John quietly chide Oliver.

"Dude, you need to put a shirt on. You know that freaks her out."

"I'm not sure it's a bad thing, Digg," Oliver chuckled. Felicity felt the heat flare in her cheeks again.

"You really want to go there, man?"

"Is that even a half-serious question?"

"Oliver. You already told her no. It's not nice to keep getting her riled up," Diggle growled.

_Oh my land. They talk about me._

* * *

AN: Thanks much to everyone who favorited and followed-now tell me what you think :) xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

She had suspected they did. Maybe a little. And part of her was fine with that since she knew John would always watch out for her like a big, angry, bear of a brother when it came to keeping her feelings safe—especially from Oliver—but this, this sounded like quite an in-depth conversation had taken place. One which included Felicity's _admiration_ of Oliver's physical assets, and her reaction to said assets and that, _that_, dear friends, seemed like a line had been crossed. No one should be talking about how she felt about Oliver's abs except her. Not that she was talking to anyone but herself, but that was the way it was supposed to stay. _Me, myself, and I. We do the talking. Period._

_Focus._ The hushed conversation on the other side of the room had stopped, and Felicity lifted her head and began rifling through the shelves randomly.

"Find what you're looking for?" Oliver called, amusement evident in his voice.

Felicty felt her jaw tighten, and she replied as lightly as she could.

"Looks like we're all out of shir—I'll be there in a minute." _Oy._

_ .now._ There'd been physical tension and emotional attraction between the two almost from the beginning of their relationship, it was unavoidably obvious to them both.

But Diggle was right—Oliver had told her no. He'd mooned over Laurel from the moment he'd returned to the city. Wrecked the (albeit miniature) chance he'd had at a normal thing with McKenna. Experimented with Helena (how else do you sum up that horror show). Had a night (or at least ten minutes) of physical intimacy with Isabel Rochev. And then proceeded to give Felicity, when she totally lost it (gratefully more internally than externally), some ridiculous warning-alert-damaged-martyr-stiff-upper-lip-chivalry-is-not-dead-lone-wolf-if-I-love-you-I'd-have-to-kill-you, _absolute bull_.

And he'd done it without so much as shred of actual acknowledgement of their . . . whatever it was. "Feelings" seemed like such a shallow, greeting card label for their connection, but she couldn't come up with anything better.

Then Sara came back to stay, or at least not go for a while. And within days it had been crystal clear just how deeply dishonest Oliver's protests against being involved with his partner/friend/office slave had been. Either that or he didn't care a whole lot for Sara Lance, and that wasn't something Felicity could wrap her normally skeptical head around. He and Sara shared too much history, too much anguish, for him to simply be using her (plus, she really did believe Oliver was a better man than that these days). He cared about Sara, and he wanted Sara, and now he had Sara. Seemingly without any "lone wolf" song and dance whatsoever. _Grrr._

Oliver's throaty laugh—how can he not get how unbelievably good that sound was—oh wait, he probably did—snapped her head back into the present and all at once she recalled what he'd just said to John's suggestion he put a shirt on.

_"I'm not sure it's a bad thing—Is that even a half-serious question?"_

He so knew what it did to her to be that close to him when he was all bare-chested and burly and dripping, and he thought it was funny. And so he did it on purpose to amuse himself and torment her. Here she was trying her best—well, mostly, except for the green-striped skirt she'd worn today, and the silver and aqua slightly slinky dress last week, and the blush colored—okay, so maybe not her most _level_ best. It was hard not to imagine what he might like when she got dressed every day, knowing he was the most constant male presence in her life besides Digg.

But still. She kept her hands to herself, which is more than Oliver could say for himself. She also definitely did not tease him about his physical attraction to her. At least not on purpose. Her filter couldn't help what it couldn't help. For some reason, Oliver Queen's mean streak had remained hidden from her until now.

She leaned her head against the shelf in front of her again, and took a deep breath. Then she straightened and grabbed a handful of napkins, slammed the closet doors shut, and turned toward the men on the other side of the room, grateful that various pieces of training equipment blocked the direct view from where she stood to where Oliver and John were eating.

They'd each dragged a chair to the table, and had filled plates with D'Anna's True Italian comfort food. Oliver's back was to her, and amazingly, it was covered with a plain white cotton tee. _Hallelujah_. As Diggle saw her coming, he stood and pulled her desk chair over next to him, giving her a sympathetic smile.

"Glad you could join us," he said, his voice kind.

Felicity was more grateful than she had any way to express, that John was part of Team Arrow—that he was her friend. Without his solid, distracting, personality, she and Oliver never would have lasted this long. They both needed him to keep them in line.

Oliver said nothing, and she didn't look at him as she silently fixed herself and plate and sat down. A massive helping of bruscellone, focaccia, house salad dressed with oil and vinegar, and a few of Digg's favorite roasted red pepper gnocchi on the side. She had planned to sit there and give Oliver the silent treatment, but she was thirsty. And she couldn't go get herself a drink without asking if anyone else wanted one—as usual, the two men had started scarfing with no thought as to beverage—that would be rude, not just sulky, and she refused to give into the simmering anger she felt right now.

When she did rude, she did it purposefully and with a cool head. Given her lack of self-control in general conversation, she'd worked hard to become someone who could cut you stone cold when she was ready; when you least expected it. But right now, she was 73 kinds of not cool—_and my head is the least of my problems_. And so she took a small breath and stood up, turning toward the stairs before she spoke.

"I'm grabbing a drink—you want anything?" she asked, as her violet leather clogs hit the bottom steps.

"Perrier," replied Oliver, knowing the bar upstairs stocked it.

"What was that orange Spanish stuff you brought down last week? Diggle asked.

"Blood Orange. San Tiago. Got it," she said, and she slipped out the door, letting it close heavily behind her.

The heat of her anger, her hurt, made her feel physically unsteady as she made her way through the back halls and out onto the main floor of the club.

_Why would he do this? _She realized as soon as it settled in her mind that the question was about more than just tonight. It was about the moments of tenderness they'd shared. The way he'd look at her—with gratitude and something more, when she did even the smallest things for him. It was the fierceness that consumed his whole body on the occasions when he thought she was in danger. And. This thing with Sara. That was a _why_, as well.

A crushing sadness smoothed itself around her shoulders like a shroud and she sank to the floor, grateful for her yoga pants. _It's harder to fall apart on the cold tile of a bar in a short, flirty, stripey skirt. Somehow, I just know it._

Maybe he was trying to make her mad. To get her to change her feelings about him. That was a pretty classic, passive aggressive move. Pre-island Oliver probably used it all the time to get out of uncomfortable relationships. But he wasn't that man anymore . . . _But he can still play one on tv. Well, two can play that game. In fact, it takes two to tango, buddy. And I've had lessons._

* * *

AN: So, don't be mad. I know this may feel a little unfair to Oliver, and a bit mean of Felicity... but we haven't really heard from him yet, and as we know, he's always got a reason for the things he does, and so does she. Trust me. It's all going to work itself out in good olicity style. Choosing not to go too far from canon means I have to deal with Sara, which is why our two favorites are such a mess right now. Anyway. Thanks for the warm welcome to the 'ship, peoples! You and your reviews make my heart go pitter-pat! Special chocolate marshmallow olivers to Bella-mi-amore, bonetrek, mikky, dafaolta, MysteriousTwinkie, Bluemnms and Guest for walking the walk and letting your fingers do the talking. xoxo Haly


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

She stood fluidly, and stepped sinuously alongside the bar on the balls of her feet. Her plan was unformed, but she felt a tickle of satisfaction in her chest anyway. Twirling, she pulled the drinks from behind the bar, and added them to the notepad labelled "Ollie's tab" which Thea kept in the drawer below the cash register, keeping a sultry rhythm to her movement as she did. _And Mom said those free lessons I won were worth as much as I paid for them. Ha! _Only with Oliver did she find herself physically awkward, even clumsy. _Of course, the rest of me is awkward .time. so what's one more spot of ridiculousness. _Shaking her head, she continued the powerful, graceful movements across the empty dance floor and down the maze of Verdant's back hallways.

It wasn't until she had almost reached the door of the lair that the buzz of creating a trap to lay some major smite on the creep who was breaking her heart began to fade. _Yeah, no. You are not some evil super villain, Smoak. You are not Isabel. You are not twisted like Helena. Revenge is for people who deserve it. And Oliver Queen may be acting like a royal (love a pun) fool. Jerk. Creep. But he wasn't a bad man, even if she did occasionally consider non-platonic circumstances where she might call him that—nothelping!felicity._

The point was that he could do his worst. It would hurt, but first and foremost (she kept telling herself), loving Oliver meant being his friend. And friends are not scared off by occasional rotten behavior, and stupid choices in female companionship. She sighed morosely as her desire to crush him beneath her recently acquired aquamarine stilettos (which she hadn't worn yet, but figured would be perfect for this particular job) dissipated. Mostly he was a good boss. Superhero. Oliver_. A good Oliver, ah yes. So many ways __**that**__ could go wrong if I said it out loud._

If she believed that he really _didn't_ care, she could make his life miserable in ways he couldn't even fathom with the world's tech as her oyster. And she could do it at any time. But the issue was that she didn't. _Is it just a fangirl fantasy? I mean, I've had those before. Of course, never about a real, actual, human person who lives in reality more tangible than screens and pages. Am I really that pathetic? Should I be . . . standing up for myself and kicking his miserable-macho-moody-self to the curb?_

Stopping in front of the beat up metal door marked "Sewer Access," she leaned against the door jamb. Her instinct was to cover her face with her hands, but as her hands were full of bottles, she raised the chilled glass to her forehead and closed her eyes. She needed to go back in that room cool and together. She needed to shut her feelings down and let this go. She needed to think . . . more clearly. _Good luck with that, Smoak._ She gave a short laugh at her own sad snark.

"Everything okay?"

Felicity jumped about a full foot off the ground, and only managed not to drop the drinks by a fine bit of juggling. When she had a firm grip on bottles, she turned her gaze to the person standing next to her.

Sara.

"You—you and Oliver need to—to _not ninja_ Team Arrow, okay?" Felicity growled. "No ninja-ing. You take _years _off my life-and not to be self-important, but you people need me."

Without realizing it, she'd moved to stand toe-to-toe with the former assassin. Suddenly recognizing this, she stepped back and leaned against the door and closed her eyes in—what? Embarrassment? _Not really, for once. _Anger? _Well that certainly simmered near the surface._ Jealousy? _Um, that was probably—_

"Felicity?"

Her eyes snapped open to face Sara, who frowned, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Just tired. It's been a long day. A long few days." _A long-freaking-year_.

"Are you sure?" Sara asked, concern evident in her tone.

"Yes. I think so. I just get worn out like everyone else—I mean I know I don't do as much work—physical work—like, sparring, leaping tall buildings in a single bound, you know. There was no innuendo intended there—anyway, my work for the team is more, well, using my magic fingers here—" she held up her hands, bottles and all and attempted to wiggle her fingers.

_Oh my gosh. Did I just wiggle my fingers and call them magic? At Sara Lance?_

"So you're fine."

"Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I've had my share of dates—and you are so not hitting on me, so I'll just—"

At this, her cheeks got hot, and Sara laughed, which broke the tension some, but only increased Felicity's horror of the conversation and she closed her eyes again.

"Hey," Sara said.

Felicity peeked through one partially open eye to find Sara standing in her personal space, a little too close for comfort. _Because you know, it's just way super awkward standing this close to the love of your life's girlfriend with your back against the wall._

"I've been meaning to talk to you. Since I decided to stay. . . " Sara said.

Felicity nodded, trying to figure out where this was going. _This is too hard. It just is. I cannot have a conversation with this woman._ As usual, her mouth opened before her self-control kicked in.

"What made you decide to stay? I mean, obviously, your family, I'm sure you missed them, and they missed you, although the reunion with Laurel was no doubt awkward—"

Felicity desperately wished she had a way out of this situation, both physically and emotionally. Again, she closed her eyes to avoid seeing the consequences of her inability to shut up. But it didn't make her mouth stop, sadly.

"Of course, Oliver's here too, and he's not just the Ollie you were. . . with. . . before, I mean now you have even more in common—you're like, Salmon ladder buddies. Survivors of the same island-y badness. Soul mates, really. Meant to be. Anyone can see that—reunited! Again, awkward with Laurel, but second chances are awesome—rare and awesome—you have to take advantage—"

Again, the Perrier and the expensive orange soda were waving dangerously in the air. Sara took a step back to avoid getting whacked.

"Hey," Sara interrupted, "Whoa, Nellie."

Felicity's open mouth closed, the bottles stilled.

"I think you misunderstand my relationship with Ollie."

* * *

AN: So this chapter wanted to be massive-it's an important conversation-but I decided to halve it. I'm travelling today, but I'll update with chapter five tomorrow I think. Thanks for the reviews to Guest, bluemnms, and of course the MysteriousTwinkie. Y'all make the story telling worth it. Also, while I'm not really a request taker as I already have a plan for this story, I am open to hearing what sorts of questions you want answered in this fic, and I might be able to oblige. As always, olicity rocks and rules!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

_Oh. This is not going to happen._ Her stomach turned and she gasped, trying to hold back the bile that crept up her throat. _I am not talking about Oliver's love life with Sara. Oliver's love life __**with **__Sara with Sara. . . It's rude to leave in the middle of a conversation, but even I have some sense of self-preservation._

She turned and shifted the drinks in order to get a hand free and reached for the keypad that kept the door secure.

"Wait," Sara said, her tone brooking no argument, and the other woman stopped, but didn't turn around.

"I get the feeling you know what happened between us the night Nyssa released me from the League."

Felicity felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. The night Sara had taken the poison. And Oliver fought Nyssa to save the Lances. Following on the heels of being told about his mother's secret. Something had happened she was supposed to know about . . .

Several things she'd been too distracted and hurt to work it out suddenly barreled through her mind's eye. Short pieces of Arrowcave surveillance with missing audio where the occupants of the room seemed to be purposefully avoiding the cameras, Oliver texting her not to come in the next day, the smell of pine-scented cleaning products coming from the mats in the sparring corner. The sudden intimacy which Sara and Oliver seemed bound together by.

_Oh—my—_

The Perrier in Felicity's right hand hit the floor and shattered, but she didn't turn around. She could feel heat and cold flashing through her body like it did when she had the flu, but her brain was stuck in a loop that just kept repeating those two words over and over again.

"Or, not," said Sara quietly.

Felicity leaned her head on the door—_a nice cool spot for my face during trauma, that's all I ask. Desk. Shelf. Door. I'm not picky._

"I'm sorry," Sara said. "It had been a rough day. For both Ollie and me. We had a lot physical tension built up—not towards each other particularly—and a lot of residual adrenaline from the fight with Nyssa." Her voice was barely audible, and it almost had the quality of someone who was talking to herself.

"I came back to tell him thanks. To thank him for saving my parents . . . for saving me. And for helping me see that I could come home. For giving me hope that maybe I could merge the Sara I was into the Sara I am, and survive—even feel alive again."

She sighed, and Felicity could feel Sara begin to pace the short width of the hall behind her.

"Ollie and I are not some great romantic love story. We never were, even though I wanted it at the beginning—hence my trip on the Gambit. I actually had a crush on him long before Laurel did . . . but Laurel was never content to let me have something she wanted. She was the oldest, and whether it was a toy or a boy, even as children, if I had it and she wanted it, she found a way to take it."

This stunned Felicity enough that she turned to face Sara. "But she's Laurel the Perf—"

Sara grinned. "Laurel the Perfect. I don't think anyone but me ever called her that. She has a way of playing that part, doesn't she? Making the rest of us mortal women feel small and unworthy."

Her voice was hard in that last sentence, and Felicity realized that those niggling instincts she had always about Laurel Lance, were not just her insecurity and jealousy speaking, and a rush of validation flooded her, making her return Sara's smile.

"Because of Laurel, Ollie and I could never have had a successful relationship. Laurel created way too much baggage. And that was before . . . everything else added more."

"We both needed someone that night, to take all the pain we'd felt out on," Sara paused, trying to find a way to make sense of what had happened in way that someone else could understand. "In a sense we were safe for each other. We knew that the rage and the . . . agony . . . was something the other could handle. And it seemed better . . . at the time . . . to let it go like . . . that . . . than to involve other people we cared about. People we could really hurt."

Felicity's expression, and her heart, froze again. There was no way to misunderstand what Sara was telling her and she felt completely gutted. Her vivid imagination was bringing the scenario to life as the woman before her continued to talk.

"I won't tell you it was nothing—but I want you to try and understand what it was."

The question was out before Felicity could stop it, and her voice was only a rough whisper. "Why? Why do you want me to_ understand_?"

Sara stopped and faced Felicity, coming closer, carefully avoiding the glass on the floor, her eyes serious and riveting.

"Because Ollie loves you."

_This does not compute. This does not compute._

Then her mouth kicked in. "Oh, of course! He's like the big brother I never had. He and Diggle both love me, I'm sure—like a kitten, or a little sister—Oliver loves me like he loves Thea, only not as much as Thea since she's his actual, real sister, but I can be annoying, I get myself into trouble—"

But Felicity's babble stopped mid-sentence as Sara began to shake her head slowly.

"I don't want this to come between you two, this moment Ollie and I had. I'm not sure it was a mistake, but it wasn't . . . wise. And it's me that he loves like a sister now, Felicity," she said gently. "Not you."

"Well not _exactly_ like a sister—" Felicity began, but Sarah cocked her head sternly and Felicity stopped talking.

"I can only guess at why you're purposefully ignoring the signs, but it probably has to do with his non-hero complex, right? He's decided he can't with be you because it wouldn't be _safe_ for you. Wouldn't be proper for you to be with a _broken_ man. It's too dangerous."

Felicity's voice was a whisper. "He told me . . ."

"I can imagine," Sara said, rolling her eyes. "Arrow through the heart. He has a talent it seems, both literally and figuratively. That conversation must have sucked."

_How does she know? Is she psychic? It wouldn't surprise me. Oliver's not the only one with special skills. At least his don't involve climbing into my brain, which although uncomfortable, might be useful—if awkward, because then he'd know other places I'd like him to climb into, like my bedroom window—which again, might be useful if Sara's right about—nothelping!felicity__—_ .

"But you're _good_ for him Felicity. _Right_ for him. He needs you in ways he doesn't understand, and you probably don't either, but I can because in so many ways, because I am him. He and I are mirrors of each other, which is why that night . . . we reflected each other's pain and it all came crashing down for just an instant."

Felicity watched a shadow of deep sadness darken Sara's face, and she felt a fleeting desire to hug the woman who stood across from her.

"But it wasn't . . . a positive instant. And it's certainly not any kind of long-term, healing, solution—something we both need, but will never find together."

There were few times in her life that Felicity Smoak couldn't think of anything to say, and this was one of them.

"His two halves . . . the one that wants you and knows you are the way out of the mess in his head, and the one that feels like he's too broken and full of darkness to ever again deserve light or love . . . well," she said with a smile, "World War III has broken out inside Oliver Queen, I think. Because of you."

Felicity shook her head vehemently. "No."

"No, what?"

Felicity just kept shaking her head, her eyes beginning to tear up against her wishes. Sara saved her from having to voice the pain she was feeling.

"Look. I've been trained to observe. To identify emotional weakness. To understand what the smallest look, or touch means—the motivation behind every word." She hesitated, looking away from Felicity for a few heartbeats.

"And I've watched you guys for a while now—even before I let him know I was here, I was watching . . . when he's with you, he's grounded. He's alive. He is almost whole. And he would do anything for you—not out of a sense of obligation for bringing danger into your life, even if he says that—but because with you he feels. He hopes. He can make sense out of things."

"Ollie would kill me for talking to you like this," she chuckled. "Well, he'd try, but I'm sure I could take him," she said with a grin at Felicity.

"I don't know if I'll ever find someone who can save me. Ollie has a chance though, with you. And I wanted you to know that."

Felicity was terrified of the tendrils of belief which were curling their way through her ribcage. _What if it's true? What if it's not?_

"I understand that it's been hard. He hasn't exactly been . . . celibate, since he got back. And his taste in one-night-stands doesn't seem to have improved," she said sardonically.

At that, Felicity's eyes widened. "Considering you were one of them?" _That was out loud. And in poor taste. Oops._

"It's always been the wrong woman, or the wrong reason, where Oliver Queen is concerned," Sara said with a laugh that was tinged with sharpness. "I'll admit to having been both."

"I see how he pushes you away and pulls you towards him and I don't think he gets what it really does to you. He likes the reaction he gets—that's classic Ollie—but it's more than flirting."

"Well that's nice," Felicity snapped, her frustration level rising. "But I think he absolutely knows what it does to me—"

"On the surface, yes. He thinks you have a crush on him, and so he lets his guard down. But with his fears, his self-loathing, Felicity, he can't believe that your feelings for him are deeper than that. And he won't let himself acknowledge that his feelings for you are deeper either," Sara said.

Felicity was seething. _This is too much. Too, too much. I can't do this. System overload. Abort mission. I can't listen to her tell me he cares—I already knew that, I think—but it comes down to the same thing, he can't or won't let me in. And it's making me crazy—in the head and everywhere else._

"I need to get out of here," she breathed, looking away from Sara. "I can't go back down there right now."

Sara nodded. "Can I take you home?"

"No—please just—can you take this down to Dig? I don't care if you get Oliver another Perrier or not, frankly," she growled, handing Sarah the two unbroken bottles she still held. "I'll call a cab."

"I saw your car . . ."

"I'm not even going back down there for my purse—there isn't anything I can't do without until tomorrow," she said tersely. "I'll just clean this up—"

"Here," Sara said, pulling some cash out of her wallet and handing it to Felicity.

"What?"

"You can't pay for a cab if your purse is in the lair."

" You don't have to—"

"Least I can do. I'll clean up too. Just make your escape before one of them comes up here looking for you."

Again, Felicity couldn't find words. "I . . ."

"It's okay. Or at least it will be. Now you have intel. That's power."

Felicity closed her eyes, shaking her head. _You still scare me, Sara Lance._

The trill of laughter clued her in, as it often did, to the fact that she'd thought out loud something she hadn't intended. _Brokenfilter!felicity!_

"For what it's worth, you scare me too, Felicity Smoak. I get the distinct impression you're a force to be reckoned with. And sooner or later, Ollie's going find that out.

* * *

AN: Next chapter is Oliver. Promise. I didn't mean to go this long without giving him a chance. This chapter surprised me, both because of its length (much longer than I planned), and because of the interaction between Felicity and Sara, which I found I really liked. Since we don't know as yet if Felicity finds out about the S/O tryst in canon (or how), I wanted to try something different and Sara seemed like a logical choice. Just because I don't like Sara with Oliver, doesn't mean I don't like her at all :) Anyway, hope you enjoy—arrow cookies with frosting and sprinkles for my reviewers: bonetrek, MysteriousTwinkie, TheOddManOut and Murgy31!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

John Diggle was staring at Oliver Queen, and it was a death stare. They'd finished eating in silence, and Felicity hadn't come back with drinks, so Oliver had grabbed a couple water bottles and returned the chairs to their proper places while Dig wrapped up the food, including the plate Felicity hadn't touched, and put them in the fridge.

As Oliver rolled Felicity's chair back to her desk, he noted her purse, phone, and tablet were still on her desk. _So she's still upstairs—doing what?_ He roused himself from the momentary reverie, and turned to find Digg staring. It would be about an hour before he was ready to spar, and he'd planned on target practice while he waited for his dinner to settle, but there was something in John's face that stopped Oliver from heading over to the bow case.

_Lecture time. _

"You need to stop this foolishness," Diggle said. "Why do you think that woman hasn't come back in—" he checked has watch. "Forty-seven minutes? It doesn't take that long to pick up a couple of bottles, Oliver."

Oliver's jaw tightened perceptibly, but that didn't scare his friend off. He shifted his eyes to the rafters, cutting off the hair-trigger response that always welled up in him these days. Whether it was a defense mechanism from the island or simply a lack of patience from a lifetime of instant gratification, it didn't take much to bring him to the edge of whatever he was feeling. He hated it. He hated the weakness he felt when he had to clamp down hard on his rising emotions, whether they were negative (usually), or positive (which could be just as dangerous).

"I'm talking to you, Oliver, instead of hitting you. That could change. I know this is hard, but I'd appreciate your attention, man. I don't want to have to knock you upside the head," came John's quiet voice.

There was no humor in the statement and that startled him. Clenching both fists at his side, he brought his gaze down to meet Digg's.

"You know I'm your friend, right?"

Oliver nodded, his control tightly held, his eyes dark as he returned John's stare.

"And you know I'm Felicity's friend too?"

Again, Oliver nodded, not moving a single muscle more than necessary. To most people, this coiled stance would be identified as dangerous to the person poking the snake. It didn't appear to affect John Diggle, at all.

"This puts me in a bad spot, Oliver. I don't want to get in the middle of whatever is going on between you two—"

"Then don't," Oliver said.

"I said I didn't want to, not that I wouldn't."

Oliver closed his eyes tightly. Wishing with every taut fiber of his being that this conversation was over.

"There are a boatload of good reasons for you to be afraid of Felicity, I get that."

The younger man's eyes snapped open at that.

"Afraid?" Oliver questioned, irritation spiking obviously in his voice.

"Petrified."

He turned away from John at this point, but didn't walk away. He did however realize he was staring at Felicity's desk now, and his chest constricted painfully, so he closed his eyes again.

"And even with your recent blockheadedness, I'm still convinced that you care about her. She's under your skin and there's nobody that sees you two together that can't see it. So whatever illusion you've cooked up for yourself—however it is you are justifying your behavior towards Felicity? It needs to stop now. It's bad for both of you."

Oliver turned slowly. "How dare you."

"How dare I what?" John shot back. "Call you on your stupid?"

Oliver growled, which was not something he did when it came to Diggle. "Act like I'm playing with Felicity. Like I'm trying to—to—_hurt_ her—"

"What was that stunt you pulled two hours ago about then? Really? I even gave you a clue, and I think your words were something about not being sure it was a _bad thing_, to get her all hot and bothered when you have no intention of following through—"

Oliver stalked towards his friend menacingly (feeling annoyed that John wasn't fazed in the least). He stopped about a yard away, and his tone was low and measured when he spoke.

"You have no idea what my intentions are toward Felicity."

"And you do?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means she's seen your brokenness Oliver. She's watched you kill. She's seen you protect people, sacrifice for those you care about, and nearly go insane with grief. She's seen your face at parties, board meetings, and smudged with darkness under the hood . . ." Digg gave a disgusted snort, as if he realized how hard Oliver was trying not to listen to what he was saying.

"I would have left you on that island after the Glades, Oliver, I really would have."

Oliver had looked away, tracing cracks in the wall with his eyes, but this brought his gaze back to John, startled.

Diggle's voice was quiet now as he continued. "But Felicity refused. The only reason I was on that plane was because she told me she'd go alone if I wouldn't come with her, but she was not going to leave you there. She said you'd endured Hell once because no one had come looking for you, and she'd rather die trying to find you than let it happen again. And that this time, the people who loved you wouldn't stop looking until they'd brought you home."

There was a compassion in John's eyes now that tore at Oliver's carefully patched inner armor, and he found himself blinking back dampness, wanting nothing more than for this pain to stop, to crawl out of his skin and slink away as an apparition into dark isolation.

"Felicity Smoak basically said she'd rather die, Oliver, than lose you. Do you get even the _half_ of how that woman feels? This is not some silly crush you can tease and blow off. She knows you better than Laurel ever did, better than Sarah does—better than _I _do, and instead of running away, man, no matter how cruel you are, she just keeps coming back."

Oliver's whole body was trembling, and he saw in his mind's eye the way she must have stood when she told John she would go alone if she had to. Ramrod straight, arms folded across her chest, stubborn eyes blazing amidst the rubble created by Verdant collapsing on top of the lair.

Diggle's next words were almost a whisper, but they were fierce. "I know you've got trust issues, and the worst case of PTSD _ever_. I suggest therapy. Lots of it. But this next part isn't a suggestion. Stop pretending that insisting on _protecting_ Felicity is really about her, and own up to the fact that it's about you protecting yourself from getting hurt because you think you're not good enough for her, or safe enough, or sane enough and she'll leave you once she finds out what a murderous liar you really are."

Oliver felt a flare of anger in his gut. "Of course I want to protect her—" he roared, moving like a cat to stand nose to nose with Diggle.

"Why," John shot back without flinching.

Oliver could not have been more undone by anything than by that single word. He stared at the ground, willing himself not to run, pushing down the panic that came from either knowing the answer, or not knowing the answer. He wasn't sure which.

"Dude, I've got a newsflash for you. She already knows what a head case of crazy you are. And she still wants you, body and soul. You can't prove yourself to her by keeping her out of physical danger—she seems like a magnet for that anyway—and still keeping her at arm's length. If you want her to be safe, she needs what everyone needs in order to be protected from the darkness in this world."

"I . . . I . . . don't know what that is," he managed to croak.

"Do you want me to tell you, or do want to stop doing the ostrich dance and figure it out yourself?"

At the odd phrase, Oliver looked up, and had almost worked up the courage to ask what it meant when the door at the top of the stairs clanged open. His heart dropped into his stomach like an icy stone and he turned slowly. _I'm not ready. I can't face her yet. Not after this._

But the blond woman walking down the stairs was Sara, not Felicity. And while a part of him relaxed, knowing he had more time to consider John's words, the rest of him felt Felicity's absence with a mixture of physical pain, and utter loneliness.

* * *

AN: Ouch. Just a little Digg-style smackdown there for Mr. Queen. You know what Mama Cass says though; "The darkest hour is just before dawn." Now that Olicity has been whumped, we can start to build our happy castle, yes? Thanks again to you adorable reviewers: dafaolta, Starlight77, .x, TheOddManOut, Murgy31, thatpoliticalgeek, and the ever loyal MysteriousTwinkie, and bonetrek. Leave a substantial review for this chapter, and I'll send you the recipe for Oliver Sandwiches. You know you want one.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

_AN: Heads up, gentle reader. There is a brief, non-graphic description of torture in this chapter, as well as some sensuality. This chapter is set post 2x13 and pre 2x14._

He'd worked on several skills with Sara, while Diggle had made a full sweep of the weapons locker, cleaning and sharpening as necessary before he'd gone home and left the two of them together, where they kept at it, silently for another hour.

The finally fell to stave sparring, and when they were done, both collapsed on the mats, their heaving breath the only noise in the lair beyond the hum of Felicity's machines in the background. Their elbows were almost touching, and Oliver felt the frisson of electricity between them that seemed to be both new, but also to have always been there.

Part of him wanted to turn to her, to seek the comfort he knew she could give, but another part of him heard John's words on a loop in his head, and they stopped him from breaching the almost non-existent distance between himself and the woman lying next to him.

Without any effort his mind went back to the week before, when he'd also ended a training session with Sara on the mat, on his back, trying to catch his breath. Pushing the images away, he sat up abruptly, resting his forearms on his knees, and letting his head drop. He could feel the tightly corded muscles running from the base of his skull and all the way down his spine strain as they stretched, and he rolled his head back and forth gently to loosen them up.

He felt Sara move, and then felt her hands, warm and rough like his own, digging into the tightness of his shoulders, the heat of her mostly bare body almost touching his back. The sensations that rushed through him made him feel like he was going to lose consciousness briefly, and he considered whether finding a discrete massage therapist—not a masseuse—would be useful. He stiffened slightly as this thought made him think about Digg's "suggestion" of a different kind of therapy, but he shut down that train of thought instantly.

"You're tense, Ollie," Sara said. "More than usual. I could feel it in your fighting."

He gave a slow nod, and flinched as Sara pushed her elbow—hard—into his left lat.

"It's like reinforced steel back here, and not in a good way," Sara chuckled, giving his right lat the same treatment as the left one.

The sound of her laughter made his stomach flip like a fish, and he felt physical desire begin to crawl its way up his ribs. He crossed his arms over his knees and laid a cheekbone against the makeshift pillow they created, forcing himself to breathe deeply.

Her hands kneaded persistently down his back bone, one on either side, no soft, sensual, tracing circles, just pure strength, burrowing into the twisted knots that had formed parallel to each vertebrae. He knew what his back looked like, what it felt like, the dozens of scars that crisscrossed the now-healed flesh, and he didn't feel shy with Sara because he knew her scars almost as well as his own—her back looked much the same.

As always, he felt a flame of anger that she'd endured beatings, the burns, the whippings. He knew that pain intimately, and for some of it he'd been chained next to her, listening to her screams, unable to answer her pleas for a savior. Failing her.

And yet, she never seemed to blame him for that. Of course, she'd been chained next to him, had listened to him weep in agony like the dying man he thought he was, then. So it made them even in a way that he wasn't even with anyone else.

That would always be the crux of things with Sara. Beyond physical attraction (which frankly wasn't unusual for him when it came to women), they had endured so much, and taken care of each other, and lost each other, and left each other . . . and found each other again after what seemed like an eternity apart. While there was a deep gulf between himself and everyone else, mostly filled with emptiness that they couldn't understand and Oliver couldn't explain, that wide expanse with Sara wasn't barren. There was a lifetime of experience and dependence between them, and time apart hadn't dissolved that history.

Yes, he'd loved Laurel as much as he could (which he now realized hadn't been enough, would never have been enough), and the memory of the easy life (it was all relative, after the Lian Yu) she'd planned for him had kept him focused on home while he'd been on the island (motivated in no small part by his guilt over Sara's death, and then, more, when he found her again). Laurel had become a touchstone during his early days on the island, a symbol of his desperation to escape the insanity he'd landed in.

But symbols were just that, and returning to Starling City didn't fix the problems he'd left behind with Laurel when he'd run away with Sara. Even though it took him a long time to realize it, coming home also made him see that Laurel _wasn't home_ for him, and she never had been.

So where was home? Not the mansion, not his mother. He wished Thea was more of home for him than she was, which was his fault for keeping her out (from necessity). The Arrowcave? As a place, he supposed that was it for now, he could leave his shirt off without worrying about anyone freaking out about his damaged skin, he could be all the parts of himself there. Digg was home . . . a surprising piece of home, a partner he hadn't expected, a strength and anchor he'd needed, especially at the beginning.

And Felicity . . . his brain dropped out of the wormhole it'd been travelling though and he flinched. He felt Sara pause, and then continue her ministrations near his most recent bullet hole more carefully, assuming it was something she'd done which had made him jump.

Where did Felicity fit. She was obviously a piece of home. Before Sara returned, she was the one who made Oliver feel the most real, the most . . . whole. Digg was an anchor, but Felicity had been the boat. Had kept him afloat. Had managed his Mr. Queen schedule, his Arrow schedule, keeping him in clean clothes, fed, getting him to meetings on time, dealing with the ridiculous mountains of paperwork his day job entailed and getting him literally any piece of intel he needed for his night job. She'd shown him that it was alright not to kill, mourned with him when he still did . . . with his eyes closed it was easy to see the way her eyes got bright with tears, for him. With him.

As with Sara (and more women over the years that he had counted), there was an undercurrent of physical attraction with Felicity. She was pretty. Beautiful when dressed to the nines. But more too. Stronger, both physically and emotionally than she seemed. Hilarious (usually when she didn't mean to be), the most intellectually intelligent woman he's ever had a conversation with. If the circumstances were different . . . but they weren't. No matter what John said, he wasn't ready for someone like Felicity, for at least a thousand reasons. And aside from a little flirting, he'd tried to be clear with her about that. Mostly.

All at once, he became aware of Sara and her hands again. At some point during his reverie he'd ended up on his stomach, and Sara was straddling him, the heels of her hands working the lats along his sides, while her fingertips wrapped around his torso to reach the outside edges of his pecs and abs in the front. There was no insinuation in her touch. There was never an expectation between them for more than whatever was happening at that moment. They'd learned early on that promises weren't useful in the lives they lived, and all you could count on was what someone could be for you right then.

Again, his mind began to drift to the way Sara's touch had felt last time they'd been alone in this room, and suddenly the warmth of her hands, the weight of her on his lower back became more than . . . platonic to him. He needed her. To make this mess in his head go away, to remind him what home truly was.

Without thinking and without a twitch to warn her, he'd reached behind with both hands, pulled her off his back, and pinned her to the floor beneath him.

"Ollie!" Sara barked, her voice _not_ playful, as he'd expected it to be.

"Yes?"

"No."

"Yes?"

"I said, _no_."

He was surprised enough that it didn't occur to him to move until she began to struggle, at which point he sat back on his haunches, staring at her. He tried to remember if he or Sara had ever said no to each other. Nothing came to him.

Sara sat up as well, cross-legged, her head in hands.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Sara glanced at him and then shook her head, looking away. "This feels familiar."

"And that surprises you?" He said with a smirk, moving to mirror her position, his knees touching hers.

She inched back, "That's not what I mean."

His brow furrowed, but now he was still, not going after her.

"It feels like the night we left on the Gambit. Knowing how much it would hurt Laurel if she found out. Not caring."

"Laurel and I have been over for a long time now, Sara," he protested.

She stood, shaking her head. Carelessly tossing off a three-part punch combination at the nearest pillar before beginning to pace.

Oliver didn't like this. He didn't understand what was going on.

"It's not about Laurel, Ollie. Not completely at least."

"What's it about then?" he asked, his words as measured and taut as his muscles. She didn't answer immediately, and he stood, coming to face her, undoing all the bodywork she'd just done for him with his tension.

"You really are clueless, aren't you," Sara murmured.

"What are you talking about?" he asked sharply.

"Felicity."

He stumbled as if backhanded, his jaw tightening, fists clenching.

"Felicity has nothing to do with this—with us."

"Neither did Laurel. Except that she did."

Oliver shook his head angrily.

"How can you compare them? This—us—now?" he stormed.

"We'll hurt her, Ollie, we already have," Sara said, sadness darkening her heart-shaped face. "Just like we hurt Laurel—like we still do."

"What are you talking about? I'm not involved with Felicity, Sara. I never was. What would make you think—"

"Ollie, this is me you're talking to. I know you. I've watched you with her."

He couldn't speak, all he felt was fury. With the roar in his years, he barely heard Sara's next words.

"And I talked to her, Ollie."

"You what?!" Oliver hissed, stalking towards her (which, part of his brain noted, didn't scare her any more than it did John). "What did she say to you?"

"It's not her fault," Sara said, quickly trying to pull the blame for his anger off of Felicity and onto herself.

"She was upset, I pushed. I knew what to say to make her talk to me."

He didn't doubt that, but he didn't like it. This crossed all kinds of lines.

"You know she loves you, right?"

"So?" he snapped.

"So?" Sara laughed incredulously.

"I am not romantically or physically involved with Felicity Smoak," he said coldly.

"But you could be, Ollie," Sara whispered.

"But I'm not. And I don't intend to be," he said, soft and even, nearly nose to nose with her, his gaze hot, trying to tempt her away from this ridiculous conversation.

"She's been there for you. She takes care of you. And she's in love with you—"

Oliver cut her off with a deep growl, grabbing her shoulders and kissing her, hard.

Sara took a half a step back, then hooked a leg behind his at the same moment she put her hands on his shoulders and twisted his hands off her own, shoving him backwards over her leg and onto the floor.

"I said, no, Ollie."

He was up off the mat before she was done speaking, but she was already several yards away from him, her hands up in a loose defensive position; her stance that of someone who doesn't want to fight.

"I don't owe her anything more than gratitude, protection, and friendship. I've never promised her more than that, Sara," he ground out, unable to identify where exactly the pain inside him was coming from, and whether it was physical or emotional.

"No? Felicity isn't like we are, Ollie—there is no hardness to protect her. No perspective to help her understand the necessity of that hardness. When she comes up against it, her instinct isn't to fight, it's to soften it, don't you get that?

"She doesn't see you has broken, she sees you as someone who needs to be healed. There's a difference. And I can see what her softness has done for you—it's started to close up those gaping wounds. You've let her do it, Ollie. I think you love her too."

Her eyes were gentle, and so was her voice, but he couldn't really hear the words. His mind was reeling. Apparently everyone knew he was in love with Felicity Smoak, except him. He focused on his heartbeat, trying to drown out Diggle's questions. Trying to forget how close he'd come to letting down those walls he'd worked so hard to build fall to ruin, giving up their space for something new, space for Felicity.

Frustration rooted deep in his chest and he turned away from Sara, his fists flying, breaking four arms cleanly off the pillar closest to him in quick succession and then standing stock still, breathing hard, his eyes closed tightly against whatever she would say next.

"I can't heal you Ollie . . ." her voice faltered, and it took all his strength not to turn towards her, to try and ease the grief in her voice. "I love you, but I can't take care of you. Not like she can."

He turned and closed the space between them in seconds. Kneeling in front of her, he wrapped his arms around her waist, his head resting just under her ribcage.

"I need you, Sara," he whispered "I don't want her. Not like this. Not right now. I want . . . you."

He felt the panic in his gut flutter as her arms came around his shoulders, his head, and her fingers rifled through his hair, so achingly familiar and comforting. She didn't say anything, and as the jittering inside him began to subside at her touch, he tried to find the words. He was never good at words. He and Sara had never needed words.

"Please. Stay. Don't leave. Stay with me. Be . . . with me."

Her hands stopped moving for a moment, their weight just resting on his head, as if she was a saint, blessing him, and he held her tighter, the idea she would leave eating him up.

She curled around him, kissing the crown of his head. He opened his eyes when she took his face in her hands, and his chest tightened at the dampness in her eyes, and he felt a pricking behind his own.

As he watched emotions play across her features, he realized this might be the moment she refused him. There was no mistaking the guilt, the anguish displayed there as the desire to be what he asked her to be fought with her desire to avoid repeating the past mistakes they had made which had caused so much pain for so many they loved.

"I won't leave until you're ready for me to go, Ollie," Sara said softly.

He nodded, and was surprised by the words she spoke next.

"This isn't like before, though. This time, we know what we're doing. We know who we're hurting."

Again, he nodded. His thoughts turning to Felicity, knowing it was cruel, yet not knowing what else to do because right now, he needed Sara. Pushing the confusion away, his mouth was on hers, and as they stood together, he whispered hoarsely against her lips a phrase that was both literal and figurative to him at this moment.

"Take me home."

Sara stepped back and turned away, unwilling to meet his gaze, and then led him across the floor and up the stairs into the waiting darkness.

* * *

AN: More angst. Sorry this wasn't the happy ending (yet) you were hoping for. The copious ANs at the end of this chapter should tell you how nervous I am about sharing it. Felicity's chapter is already partly done, and I'll be able to finish it this weekend for you. If you've seen x13 & x14, you may understand why I needed to try and make sense of Oliver and Sara's relationship in this chapter. After this we're AU though, because this is about as much Sariver (or whatever they call themselves) as I can stand. I also watched a bunch of interviews with Stephen and Emily for some character insights after I finished the previous chapter, and their perspectives both confirmed and rattled things for me. Plus 2x14. Yeah. ANYWAY.

ANN: My point is that if I seem to go a little crazy, it has to do with Stephen and Emily, and the realization that Sara isn't going anywhere for now, except places Olicity doesn't want to even think about. Stephen insists that Oliver wasn't jealous of Barry—just protective, and he doesn't think Felicity will be jealous of Sara because (quote)—"she's stronger than that". (?!) Oliver sees how Felicity reacts to him, but he's used to being adored by more women than he knows what to do with. I think this is a very male perspective :) Emily says Felicity is overcoming a lot of fears, and while her feelings for Oliver are obvious, she's also a very honest and pragmatic person—she doesn't hold grudges and she tends to wants the best for everyone, taking them where/as they are, which is how she manages to deal with Oliver without being psycho about it (my words not hers).

ANNN: Thanks for listening to this little rant. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I hit 100 followers for this story today and I can't tell you how that warms the cockles of my heart! Thanks especially to those who reviewed nicely the last chapter: you've won the Oliver Sandwich Recipe! Watch your PM box this weekend! For those considering leaving a review for this chapter, who wants Felicity Cake!? Tell me your favorite part (or if the whole things sucked), and it's yours, you lovely people you.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

She slammed the door and did up the locks _3-2-1_. Usually her first stop was to drop her purse and tablet on their table to the left of the door, and she paused for a moment, feeling a little traitorous for leaving them behind when she escaped. Then to her bedroom where her shoes went into their cubby in the closet, followed by a trip to the dresser, where she removed her jewelry and stowed it in the antique wooden silverware chest she used as a jewelry box. Glad she'd changed her into something more comfortable _sadly not for that reason_ before she'd left for the Arrowcave, her next stop was the fridge for the jar of fudge topping.

She unscrewed the lid, and stuck it in the microwave, punching thirty seconds before slamming that little door as well, and pushing start. She was mesmerized briefly by the glow inside, but then the ice cream was out of the freezer, and she pulled her favorite purple bowl from the dishwasher along with a spoon.

By the time the timer on the microwave buzzed, the bowl was almost full, and she finished it with a final scoop before returning the carton to the freezer. Dish towel wrapped around the jar, she swirled it gently on her way to the bowl and then, like a sommelier, twisted at the end of the pouring. It was almost empty, but never one to waste chocolate in any form, she reached over to the glass pitcher of utensils she kept on the counter and pulled out a red spatula to scrape out the rest of it.

The spatula and the jar went into the sink, and she paused to fill the jar with water to soak. Turning to look at the bowl of deliciousness in front of her, which would likely give her a stomach ache and a brain freeze by the time she hit the bottom, she gave into a rebellious thought and went for the cupboard next to the fridge, pulling out two items before satisfactorily slamming that door too. She'd never really been a door slammer, but it felt really, really, good tonight.

When she took the bowl to her room a few minutes later, the mint chocolate chip sundae had been topped with crushed Oreos and rainbow nonpareils. Setting the ice cream on her nightstand, she considered pajamas and decided against letting her ice cream melt any longer than necessary. Instead she pulled open the bottom drawer of said nightstand and retrieved her backup tablet. Again, she felt the pang of leaving Persephone at the Arrowcave, but Penelope was as faithful as her namesake, and she'd be good company tonight, which was all Felicity needed right now.

Settled under the blankets, Penelope on her knees and the massive quantity of ice cream and cooling fudge on her chest, She queued up _Doctor Who_ 1x1, ready to let Christopher Eccleston's angry, broken, doctor-ness take her away. This wouldn't keep her from having to face the Oliver Situation, but if she took tomorrow off, and watched until Ten had to say goodbye to Rose on the beach, she thought the emotional trauma would be sufficiently worked through for her to manage it.

_The Oliver Situation. It sounds like something Matt Damon would star in. Oy. Now I've given this mess a name, which clearly gives it—him—a boatload of power. Even if I have intel, which Sara said was power. Even if it doesn't feel like power. Stop it, Smoak. Ice cream. Doctor. Now._

She woke up when her alarm went off, and immediately headed for her closet until she remembered that she wasn't going to work today. Today, The Doctor was in, and Felicity was going to be under his care. Crawling back into bed, she picked up Penelope, logged in at Queen Consolidated, and adjusted her schedule, and Oliver's _because there are some things—a lot of things—he can't manage without me, and you know what? I need a mental health day. Or four, but I'm settling for one, which is very, very, grown up of me._

Then she sent Oliver an email—_I obviously need a backup phone as well, not that I intend to leave Ada anywhere __**ever**__ again, but still_—which simply said she was taking a personal day, no need to worry, she'd fixed his schedule so nothing bad would happen, yadda yadda yadda. She considered adding "don't call me, I'll call you", but since Ada was still at the Arrowcave, she figured it was pointless. Plus, it would make Oliver mad if she said it, and he'd be more likely to hunt her down and show up at her door—he'd made it clear he wanted to be able to reach her anytime he chose—_which is so not on the agenda today. A girl needs her space_.

Breakfast? No purse. No phone. No delivery. No car. _I really should have given this a little more thought._ She wished she'd had time to go grocery shopping, but then, lately she never had time to do much more than take care of Oliver, in one form or another. Which she liked doing—_and I'm stunningly good at it_—but really. People needed groceries—_unless they're never home to eat_. She sighed and closed Penelope, switched off the light and curled back into her nest of blankets. She deserved a few more hours of sleep before having to make herself breakfast. _Plus, I'm not going to work today, and I'm exceedingly tired._

There was a loud pounding coming from somewhere, and the rhythm left enough to be desired that her sleepy brain figured it wasn't actual music. Or morse code. Or the washing machine off balance. _The door. Someone is at the door. And they want me to answer it._

Glancing at the clock, which told her it was almost noon, she sat up, grabbed her bathrobe from where it lay on the end of the bed, and stumbled to the front door, shrugging it on as she went. The pounding hadn't abated, and if anything was getting louder. She peeked through the peephole to see a very unhappy looking John Diggle, and immediately began working the locks. "I'm here—I'm working on it," she called. _Deadbolt—chain—swing lock._

When she finally got the door open, Digg just stood there and glared at her.

"Did something happen? Is Oliver okay? Is Sara okay? Are you okay?" she fired quickly, the immediate tide of rising panic starting to make it hard for her to breathe. She reached for John, grabbing his forearms, as if feeling for broken bones.

"I'm fine, Felicity," he growled. "Now that I know you're not dead in a ditch somewhere."

That startled her into silence, and she stepped back, allowing him entrance. After she closed the door, she turned to look at John, cringing a little as she faced him. She was not usually on the receiving end of Digg's Mad Face. That was Oliver's territory.

"You didn't come back."

Felicity took a deep breath. "No, I didn't."

"You left your stuff on your desk—even your phone."

"Yes. Sara said she'd bring your drink down—did she bring your drink down?"

"This is not about the drink."

"No, of course not, I just—didn't want you to end up thirsty last night, since I did try to make sure you got your yummy, orange, fizzy—"

"I couldn't reach you. I knew you were upset, and I couldn't get a hold of you, and you didn't say goodbye."

Felicity frowned. "I'm sorry, John—I just needed to leave, like, right away—"

"What was so important you needed to leave without a word, and without your tech? How did you even _get_ home?"

"I . . . I took a cab."

"Without your purse?"

"Sara . . . lent me some cash."

"Sara?"

"We talked. Well, mostly she talked. I mean, I babbled some, as per usual, but she actually left me kind of speechless during a lot of the conversation—which, you know, is _un_usual for me—but she dropped several bombs, and my brain couldn't keep up enough to even respond much, which is crazy, because that's not generally a problem for Felicity's Brain, right?"

She stopped and took a deep breath, daring a glance at Diggle. He stood akimbo, his mad face gone _thank heavens,_ his face impassive except for an eensy weensy twitch at the right corner of his mouth. Relief swept over her. _Slightly Amused and Trying Not to Show it, is much better than Mad Face._

"I'm sorry I worried you," she added quietly, looking away again.

"So what did you and Sara talk about?"

"Telling you that would require sustenance—which, now that you brought me my wallet—thanks—won't be a problem," she said, reaching for her purse, which Diggle had set on the coffee table.

"Were you really sleeping this late?"

"Yes. I called in a personal day, and stayed up watching television and eating ice cream until way past my bedtime. So sue me."

She avoided Digg's gaze, but could still see him quirk an eyebrow in her peripheral vision. Extracting Ada from her purse, she called her favorite coffee shop, which delivered—one of the reasons it was her favorite—and ordered brunch-y food and drink for herself and John. Plus, cookies. They had _amazing_ cookies, and you never knew when you might need an ice cream sandwich, something that was infinitely more delicious when made with _amazing _cookies.

When she hung up, she plopped onto the sofa, Digg having already made himself comfortable at the other end, where he was staring at her steadily.

"Spill."

"Excuse me?" she replied with a huff.

"I know Oliver was rough on you today—he certainly hasn't forgotten the "old ways"—but what kind of a conversation did you and Sara have the resulted in you running away without your babies—" he nodded at the tablet and phone on the table next to her—"and yet taking cab money from her?"

Felicity sighed and closed her eyes, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them.

"I'm hungry, John. I need food."

"I can wait, Felicity, I'm just worried about you," he said, reaching out and laying a hand on the foot closest to him.

She nodded, her eyes still closed. "Thank you."

And then, as if she physically couldn't hold back the emotional tide an instant longer, she started to talk. When the doorbell rang, Diggle automatically answered it, paid the tip, brought the food to the table, and handed her a hot cardboard cup. Sitting back down beside her with his own cup, he took a sip, and just waited for the torrent to start again.

Several times during the recitation, Felicity's eyes filled with tears, and she was embarrassed, but so grateful to have John there to curl up next to. She'd never had anyone in her life like this big bear of a man, with his gruffness and his apparent ability to see through her "okay-ness" when she wasn't, actually, okay. Yet his care-taking he didn't make her feel as though she was silly or weak for the emotionality she'd always felt was a personal flaw.

Eventually, she was out of words. She let the silence hang between them as long as she could. It only seemed fair after talking for like, _ever_, to give him a chance to respond. But he was taking too long.

"Say something. Am I crazy? Wait, don't tell me. I can't take it today. Say something else. Something nice, please."

John chuckled, and reached for the hand not holding her cup, and took it in both of his. "It's going to be okay."

Felicity felt her eyes begin to water, and she set her cup on the coffee table and reached for Kleenex instead, rubbing her eyes.

"That was quite the conversation you and Sara had. I'm actually pretty surprised. I wouldn't have pegged her for an open book from what we've seen so far."

She nodded. "Surprised doesn't begin to cover me, Digg. I mean. I began dropping things and running into walls. It was beyond awful. And for me that's saying something."

"What did you say to all this . . . revelation?"

"Um. What do you think?"

Diggle mock-cringed. "That bad?"

"Not good, and once she admitted to a romp in the 'cave with my fantasy boyfriend—I so did not just say that—"

"Actually, you did—" John interrupted with a wide smile.

"And it will never, ever, be mentioned. We'll just pretend Sara was talking about Sherlock Holmes. Or Dean Winchester. Or Batman. Which would be almost as equally devastating, but not as awkward in the office—_no mentioning_, ever, do I make myself clear?"

"You really have thing for damaged men, don't you."

"It's a good day to die, John Diggle," Felicity warned, jabbing a Razzle Dazzle Rose-tipped finger at him for emphasis.

Digg threw his head back and laughed. "I'd like to hear you explain my death to Oliver."

"At least you're not doubting my ability to end your life," Felicity grumbled.

"Never," John said solemnly.

She sighed and buried her face in her hands, scrubbing at her eyes before letting her head fall against the back of the sofa, her eyes closed.

"After she said _that thing_, I actually had a brain freeze—and not the good ice-cream kind—I could barely speak. It was like there was a . . . a . . ."

"Malfunction?"

"Yes! And not the normal brain-to-mouth filter kind! It was unexpected. That_ never_ happens to me."

"I can believe that. So it could have been worse."

"I guess so. But it really was horrible."

"So, what did you learn after all was said and done?"

Felicity looked up at him, her head tilted quizzically.

"I don't know. I'm not sure things were _all_ said and done. I sort of ran away at the end there."

"What are you going to do now?

"You would ask that," she said quietly and looked away.

Her gaze drifted towards the window, and she tried to think an answer through rationally, but tears began to surge up her throat as soon as the pros and cons list began to scroll through her mind's eye. Unable to speak, she just shook her head, avoiding Diggle's eyes.

Digg handed her a tissue to replace the one she had nearly finished shredding, and she swiped at her eyes, anger flickering in her chest.

"I hate this! Feeling confused. Not knowing what to do—it makes me feel stupid and—"

"Stupid? You're one of the smartest people I know, Felicity Smoak," John interrupted.

"I know I'm smart," Felicity said, raising her voice. "I know it, and I like it, and I like knowing it, which is why feeling like an idiot is a really, super, sucky feeling for me. I'm not used to it."

Swinging her feet to the floor, she leaned forward with her elbows on her knees.

"There just aren't a lot of things I can't figure out, John. I mean, if all else fails there's Google and YouTube, you know? I've been saved more times than I can swing a cat at by those two bastions of knowledge—but Oliver is not googleable. I mean, technically he is, but the real him—I suppose it's the real him on paper, so maybe I mean his . . . his . . ."

"Heart?" John supplied quietly.

Felicity stilled, and her hands which had been hanging loose in front of her, clasped together tightly, knuckles showing white. Her breath hitched and she swallowed hard, before nodding slowly. She could feel the tension building, her neck and shoulders tightening uncomfortably. An image of Oliver, waves of emotion and stress roiling off him flashed through her mind, and a piece of his puzzle fell into place for her. It was confusion causing the frustration and pressure she felt. Maybe Oliver was confused too.

_Of course he's confused. Duh. That explains a lot. It explains Stress Face, and Going to Explode Face, and Am I Oliver or Ollie or Vigilante Right Now Face. It also explains the revolving bedroom door since he got home, and more particularly his choice of companions._

"I'm willing to go with that assessment," John said.

Felicity groaned. "Out loud?"

"Yup. Good to know your filter's still broken—you're the same Felicity I know and love."

She gave him a watery smile, and reached for her cup. Taking a long sip, she curled back up in her corner of the sofa, tucking her feet under her.

"Thank you for coming, John."

"Always. It was a serious question though. What now?" he asked.

"I honestly don't know."

"Do you want him?"

"Excuse me?" Felicity said with a sharp laugh, eyebrows raised in incredulity. "Is that a rhetorical question? One you actually _don't_ know the answer to? Or one you think you do? Are we speaking strictly in a friend-zoned sense, or an I-like-my-boss-and-want-to-keep-my job sense, or in a sense which is filled with the kinds of naughtiness I'm always accidentally dropping hints at?"

She laughed again, but the humorless sound broke into a little sob at the end.

"I've been at this almost two years now, Digg. Two years of pretty much nonstop life-changing, crazy-making, blood in my backseat, salmon ladder-gawking, platonic touchy-feely while watching him parade a seemingly endless supply of frightening—yet gorgeous—women through his—our—door. Doors. Plural, because it seems every door in my life at this point leads to some facet of his life—alter ego—whatever—making them _our_ doors, right? Shared, communal, Oliver doors."

Felicity was standing now, gesticulating impressively. She knew she that this rant was getting out of hand, but she needed to work this out, out loud, and it was always easier with a captive audience, which she, as luck would have it, had.

"I've tried to keep my distance, John. Tried to be mature about this. Tried to ignore what feels to me like this ginormous, insane amount of unresolved . . . physical attraction between us, which he mostly ignores, except when it seems like he doesn't—at which point he steps away, leaving me feeling ridiculously like that time I was thirteen and I thought Tristan Riley, captain of the high school chess club and Mr. Darcy lookalike—Colin Firth of course—considered our weekly matches, like I did, to be a courting ritual, until I showed up early one day and caught him making out—like get-a-room making out—with a red-headed cheerleader named McLeigh McCray—can you believe that? Mc Mc? What were her parents high on? Wow. Tangent. Anyway. It leaves me feeling like I assumed too much, and you know what they say about assuming things, yes? So imagine how that makes me feel. _Not good_."

"So what do you think? You think I want him? You're absolutely freaking _right_, I want him. Platonically, non-platonically, lock, stock, and barrel. And there aren't even any innuendos there, it's just the honest truth. You know the loneliest way to be lonely? To be close to someone and not have them notice. To love someone and not have it be mutual. To be _not alone_, and still alone. And I've felt alone with Oliver since the very beginning." Her final words were spoken in a tight staccato.

Diggle shook his head and stood, and in two strides had enfolded her in a tight, warm hug.

"You've got it worse than I thought, girl," he whispered into her hair.

"I know, Digg," she whispered back.

John loosened his grip and led her back to the sofa, pulling her down to sit next to him and keeping an arm around her.

"Sara was right, and you're right, and I'm even right," he chuckled dryly. "If she's sure they're not a couple, and she and I _both_ know that Oliver's in love with you whether he sees it or not, and you've loved him all along, which everyone but Oliver gets, then it seems to me the only thing left to do here is to clue the man in, right? And since Sara and I have both tried, I think that means it's your turn."

* * *

AN: Sorry for the wait. Hope it's worth it! Never fear—this is a truly Olicity story, I promise. But Oliver (and Sara) are both super duper messed up, which means a-to-b is a little more complicated from where I stand. Next up, as you might imagine, there will be some hitting of the fan, and I've already started on it (cue wicked laughter). Get ready for the angst!

ANN: Cyber cookies to the reader that can guess who Felicity's phone is named after. Digital chocolates to the reader who knows the story of Penelope's name. Something super special for the reader who, against all odds, can tell me why her new, main, favorite tablet is named Persephone (maybe a oneshot of your very own?). Also, vote in your comments about which character's recipe you want to see next. If you vote, I'll send the winner to you :) Thanks to everyone who is still reading and reviewing, and special thanks to those who reviewed Chapter Seven, even if you hated it: Amber, emilyhotchner-and-olicityfan, TheOddManOut, Chris4, jessspider, dafaolta, MysteriousTwinkie, Redlioness62, Crimson-Kiss17, bdbouchra.


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